Whargoul

by Dave Brockie

  I stand before him and allow him to look at me.

  He is Assad, and in the years to come he will be my lover. We will wade through rivers of blood and cum until the day that he is finally buried alive by the beasts of the infidel, with his fine Arabian cock inside of me.

  “Allah save me,” he gasps. “Save me from this spawn of the devil!” He fumbles with his sidearm and raises a Beretta in my direction. As he does, I raise my finger, lick it, and stick it in the muzzle of the gun, fixing my gaze upon his in a parastolic grip.

  “I surrender.” I say.

  So once again fortune had changed for me, this time due more to boredom than anything else. It had been years of sad and sordid seclusion as I sought to destroy any vestige of humanity I’d had managed to gain during all those pleasant years with Gabby in the south of France. Now, having accomplished that through my decade-long pseudo-canine blood feast, I was ready to re-enter the world of mechanized death without a shred of conscience or remorse. I had heard of the war to the south and yearned once again for the banshee song of the rocket, the sweet stink of rotting flesh wafting across the battlefield, and the grinding of the metal claw as it sought purchase in living meat. I again sought others of my kind, and a rebirthing of the mission for which I’d been whelped (whatever that was).

  And I needed another thing—a fat cock all up inside of me.

  ***

  I stare at Gab’s breast as it protrudes from the nightshirt she is wearing and wonder why it excites me anymore that the sight of a fire hydrant.

  She is sleeping and she is lovely, even though she is getting older and it must be obvious to her that I am not. But why is she lovely, or why is her face, if it had been corroded with maggots, not?

  The sight of the shape of the lower half of her generous breast fills me with lust, contentment, and joy. Of course, part of this is the fact that she is my girlfriend, because if she were not my sex partner then the sight of her breasts might fill me with lust, hatred and confusion. I think dogs are confused—or why would they spend so much time humping legs?

  Had I been programmed to react this way? Why else would animals react in certain manners to the shape or coloring of plumage, the particular strut or odor exuded in the pursuit of sex? Because they were made that way. If we didn’t have certain clues and stimuli as to the depositing of our seed, we’d never get laid.

  But how did these clues get there? Were we programmed by biology, as the scientists claimed? By God, as the mealy—mouthed priests would tell you? Or, in my case anyway, by an eldritch being which existed in the blighted ways of the underworld, creating endless life in a quest to destroy it? How could I know? Was there a reason for what I felt when I stared at her jutting breast, or . . .

  Was it something left over from what I had once been, something so strong that it could not be erased?

  I had been programmed to enjoy violence. Why else would I do the things that I had done? I recalled a night in Stalingrad, so many years ago . . .

  “Ursula, show us that trick again,” bellows the drunken Batyuk, clad as usual only in his stained underwear.

  We are in the whorehouse, which consists of a basement beneath a bombed-out building. Some blackened stairs lead into its fetid depths, and here several women (and I use the term loosely), have set up shop. These are old whores, camp followers of whatever army is nearby, and they have had literally thousands of penises inside of them, not necessarily all at once. They know how to hide a pregnancy, how to kill their own children, and how to turn a collection of grimy mattresses in the middle of a war zone into a profitable business, of which my filthy friends and myself are regular customers. It is the one place in the whole horrid city that we enjoy a truce with the Germans—they get the place two nights a week. They would leave us beer and we would not kill them.

  The old vitrola warbles forth distorted tunes as the evening degenerates into another drunken debauch. It’s been a busy night; one of the girls has been flat on her back for over five hours and Elsie, the youngest of the group (though through her mask of make-up, grime, and dried semen you would never know it) is passed out. That does not stop my friends, however, as two soldiers hump her with considerable vigor. Their exposed asses gleam whitely against their dark uniforms. Bombardments continue, planes pass overhead on missions of destruction, yet we ignore these distractions to focus on Ursula’s “trick.”

  “What will I get, that I should do my trick, hmmm, babushka?” says the drunken old slut.

  “What will you get, why, I’ll give you money, or how about these gold fillings I have been prying out of dead Germans’ teeth?” spits my colleague in carnage, holding out a dirty fistful of yellowish lumps.

  “As I recall, my murderous Mongolian,” I interject, “you pried those teeth out of German soldiers that were still alive.”

  The whore looks at me with the same uneasy glare that she always gives me. I scare her and her girls but I always paid well. After my first few sexual experiences (I had hurt those girls) I have been content to come here and drink, my second favorite pastime after killing people. And tonight I have drunk easily a gallon of vodka.

  “Give that bottle to me,” she says, motioning to an empty container of bootleg Popov. She sets it on the rough surface of the table in front of her, then rises unsteadily to her feet, arms spread like a high-wire specialist. Her show is no less spectacular, as she slowly begins to lower her cock-widened maw upon the helpless bottle, engulfing its mass in the cavernous depths of her suck-hole (mouth). It is both disgusting and stimulating, and the humping soldiers rolls off their inert prey in order to view the spectacle. Barking with each inch as they disappear, Batyuk is fully invigorated by the bottle-swallowing prostitute who now has the whole thing wedged in her face. She lifts her head from the table, bringing the bottle with it, its outlines clearly visible through her expanded throat. A drunken cheer erupts.

  Programming! Violence! I smash her on the side of her throat with my bottle, breaking both in a shower of razor-sharp shards. Her throat is ripped open on my follow-through, as both flesh and glass merge in an expanding cone of blood.

  It’s funny!

  She falls back to the floor, flailing at her wound, a horrid gurgling bubbling out of her dying face. The sound, the feeling, the experience is simply too tempting to resist, and I take such great pleasure in the suffering of others. Her friends scream and attack me, pummeling my bulk with ineffectual blows. I beat them senseless in a drunken rage, while Batyuk roars with laughter. The other men stumble out, hurriedly gathering their weapons and whatever booze they can grab. Only Batyuk can bear my presence, being the basest of humans and glad that he can collect his fillings from the dead whore’s pocket.

  “She’s still warm,” he mumbles, searching her mouth for fillings, “I’m gonna get her again.” And then he fucks her.

  Another thing we would sometimes do is chinfucking, which means fucking them in the chin.

  We bear her corpse up to the street and dump it into a stinking hole, where unseen things lurk, just beyond sight, and scuttle away from the dead woman that thuds into their midst, only to soon be drawn towards her, first with curiosity and then with slavering jaw and claw. Over the space of hours they dismember her and bear the leaking bits below.

  This is where the Quioid, the lowliest flesh-bearers, congregate and wait for fresh influxes of raw material. They feed upon and curry favor from the more powerful creatures with these bits. Short, wiry and foul-smelling, these creatures are the most loathsome bottom-feeders on my Father’s food chain. They could be dangerous if assembled in great numbers, but generally they are too quarrelsome and stupid to unite on anything.

  This is why I can’t do things like take beautiful women out to dinner. I never know when I might ram my salad fork into her enchanting eye. I have been programmed to be an asshole, and a murderous one at that.

  It seemed to be my strongest sense, the urge to destroy. But I also knew that I was capable of great love. Sometimes
when speaking with someone, anyone, I would be suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to lay a big slobbery kiss on his or her smacker. I feel like it takes all my strength just to stop myself from putting them in a sloppy lip-lock. I could kiss or kill you, and no one could trust me anymore than I could trust myself. It was why I isolated myself, or joined armies. In one environment I couldn’t hurt anyone, and in the other I was expected to.

  But those years with Gabby had been different. Left alone and without a war, I had changed. I had reprogrammed myself. My natural instincts had taken over. It could, and would, happen again. But so many would have to die before I once again grew weary of the killing.

  ***

  I am chained to a pole in the courtyard of the al-Rashid prison, the largest in the city limits of Baghdad. Since my capture I have been here, enduring punishment for my crimes against the state.

  I knew I would be tortured but I did not know how bad it would get. If I had, then I might have stayed up in the hills. But I was quite the celebrity, and I was given very special treatment. It was not as bad as the pain I had endured at the hands of what I had to assume were members of the Mossad, the Israeli secret police. Their pain had been cleverer, as if they understood more of my physiological state and its reaction to the punishment, where my nerve centers were and such. But the Iraqis were far more blunt—they would saw off my arm and beat me with it, or wail on me with hurtful lengths of electric cable. Uday would whack me mercilessly and I would take it with as much stoicism as possible. I would stare him straight in the eye as he worked himself into a tizzy. He took quite an interest in me, and had my face shaved. I was stripped and hung by chains to a wall. They hosed me down to remove the filth that encased and to a certain extent protected my body. My lean form featured a beautiful pair of breasts that Uday would stare at while others beat me. He would rub himself and breathe heavily.

  Here are some of the other things that they did to me—

  I am bound naked to a gas heater. They turn up the heat. Though I could break my bonds with ease, I allow my genitals to be singed.

  Electric connectors are attached through my pussy lips, which are shocked until I release bloody cum.

  Molten glass is poured into my rectum.

  I am made to wedge my head in between two wooden planks, which they nail my ears to.

  I am stripped and covered in honey. Then I am lowered by my thumbs into a room filled with insects.

  All that and so much more. And they filmed every minute of it. They studied me with their doctors. And Uday’s erection was often visible through the black military jumpsuit that he wore. I think he was beginning to like me.

  But the Iraqi tabloids screamed for my blood. I was a captured Kurdish war hero and my execution was scheduled.

  They began to show amazement at my resistance to torture. They had sawed my leg off, and I had not bled overmuch. I was left in the cell with my leg. When they had left I put my leg back on. It was not a perfect fit but I was still strong from my latest battle feast. When they came back I was up and around. Uday came back to personally saw my leg off. When he got there I was fingering myself and rubbing my breasts, moaning softly. My shaved and naked body had a peculiar effect on him. He got very agitated and ordered his men out of the room. Then he jacked off on me in a frenzied rush. I begged him to commute my sentence so I could help them in their fight against the Iranians, a war that was just kicking into gear. Uday was still a kid at this point, just beginning to come to grips with his sexuality. He was the first person who saw me as a woman, and he was also the first person to jack off in front of me, like he did that day.

  “I will ponder your breasts—I mean words,” he said as he fumbled out of the chamber, zipping up his cum-spattered flight suit.

  It was then that they got very interested in me. Uday opposed my execution and favored continued experiments. But orders came from Saddam himself that I was to be shot immediately. I was dragged from my cell in the middle of the night and taken outside.

  “For crimes against the Iraqi people, and our great leader, Saddam Hussein, you have been sentenced to death!” screams the officer, sweat exploding from his dark face. “Do you have any last words?”

  “I repent for my crimes! I love our glorious leader, and dedicate my life to him! All glory to Saddam! Allah Akbar!”

  The squad lines up to fire. The order to ready, and then aim, is given. I stare into the barrels of eight AKs, and wonder what I will come back as this time. I had little doubt that I would return.

  Suddenly one of the barrels moves abruptly to the right. The soldier behind the gun shoots the officer in the head, before the order to fire can be given. He slowly sinks to the floor, spouting blood as the squad stands about confusedly in various directions. My savior stares at me, and I stare back, and allow my first smile in years to grace my face.

  It is Assad. The young soldier whom I had allowed to capture me. Who has been assigned to my security detail and who has watched my transformation from untamed hill-thing to the shaved and chained sex goddess that Uday has made me into. Then a group of Uday’s men arrive in a jumble of suits and arrest everyone except me, who they leave chained to the pole.

  Uday enters.

  “Fucking Iranian masterbators!” he screams while jacking off.

  I’m glad to have not been shot multiple times. I could survive it but it would hurt like hell. And it could possibly scar me, and I was beginning to understand that I liked my new form and the effect the shape of my breasts had on men. It touched programming within the humans, and elicited reactions they could not control. My newfound sexuality would become a powerful weapon.

  ***

  I lounge in the air-conditioned comfort of the underground train and smoke a Marlboro. Saddam will not be pleased that his son has murdered the party guest. The man had been an old friend of the president, and had known his favor. But this was family. Uday would drink and take drugs for days, then have an emotional collapse at some expensive Baghdad rehab clinic. His father would shun him for a time and then forgive him for his horrific act. Blame would be generated around the victim—somehow he had deserved to be hacked and shot to pieces. As the veil of delusion was more tightly drawn, the fictitious crimes of the victim would grow to the point where it was revealed that Uday had thwarted an assassination attempt against a President that was not even there. He was a hero.

  Signal lights pulsed across my composed features as the train slides into the bay area that leads to Saddam’s chambers. I knew that tonight he would be there, staring at battle maps of the Iranian front, desperately trying to come up with a way to break the stalemate of a conflict that had taken the flavor of WW I trench warfare.

  I enjoyed it. My unit was assigned to one of the most active sectors and saw a lot of action. The “Khomenis,” as we called them, attacked often. They didn’t show a lot of finesse either. Their standard attack mode was to run screaming in a huge mass of men directly at us. They had little training but inexhaustible numbers. Sometimes it was as easy as depressing the button of a machine gun. You really didn’t even need to aim. And this constant stream of mangled corpses-in-waiting, and the energy they released upon their violent ends, suited my necrotic feastings very well. I was content, if a little lazy.

  I feel my clit twitch as I don the cotton gloves required when meeting with the president. He is a germ freak and constantly worried that he would be infected with some murderous CIA-concocted bug. But actually at that time the CIA is helping him to destroy Iranians. Soon he will take advantage of this alliance by attacking it. That Exocet missile that smashed into the U.S.S. Stark was no accident. He also makes everyone change his or her socks before you can see him. And you never get back your old ones. Maybe he has a sock fetish. It wouldn’t surprise me, as he seems to be immune to my sexual predadations and with the musk that I exude that is difficult for any man. Unless he enjoys jacking off into dirty socks more than being with a woman (even a Whargoul woman with a fake mustache).

/>   We pass into the bunker area through an elaborate system of strongpoints and guards. All of these men in the inner circle are related to the president’s family in one way or another. It is one of the ways that Saddam stays in control—he keeps it in the family. That may have meant intermarriage in certain cases, and also might explain the behavior of Uday, which is certainly that of a madman. It is all very interesting to ponder but does impress me too much. The bottom line is what impressed me, and the Husseins of the Tikriti clan certainly have a big bottom . . . line.

  Now we are but one chamber away from the president. I am surrounded by superbly dressed bodyguards in Pierre Cardin suits, made bulky by the profusion of automatic weapons beneath the expensive fabric. These men are ostensibly my bodyguards but are ready to attack me in a moment’s notice, even though I have fucked several of them. They shuffle about, bumping brawny shoulders, their impassive faces betraying sweat, even with the benefit of the excellent Italian air conditioner. On the other side of the door our party is being scrutinized through the video monitor, and Saddam has been known to murder anyone coming into his presence without the benefit of immaculate grooming.

  “There’s a fly in here,” I think as the door closes with a satisfying swoosh.

  Saddam is facing the opposite direction, looking at a giant bank of TV screens displaying a variety of images. On several we can see the scene of the banquet I had just left. The party has cleared out and a crew of paramedics is loading the stiff off the bloody floor and onto a gurney. The band is still playing as apparently no one has ordered them to stop. Saddam watches this intently, bobbing his head in time to the music, which comes over the video feed in tinny noodlings. We stand there, stock-still and speechless until we are recognized. But he betrays no hint of even being aware of our presence as he continues to listen to the music.